That stuff will kill ya ...

... I talked to an old acquaintance from medical school the other day. He's a respected cancer researcher in a small but very vital facility back east.

We weren't good friends in med school but we ended up in the same residency program where "batttleground friendships" are soon quickly formed after 36 hour shifts and little sleep. Nothing like defibrillating an octagenerian at 2am to bring out one's true personality.

As it turns out, Jeff (as I'll call him) was a good guy - nice, smart, compassionate - and quirky. He was fun company on call.

We used to hit the vending machines in the hospital cafeteria at 3 am when we'd trade beepers so that one of us could catch a few hours of sleep. We'd grab something unhealthy and sign out to the other person. Then one of us would go to sleep and the other would go back to the floors or the ICU.

I'd usually get an ice cream sandwich or a Reese's peanut butter cup - chocolate would give me energy for the waning hours or fill my belly, allowing me to catch some z's. Jeff would go to the same machine every night but would always get something different. Sometimes he'd happily gobble down some Doritos or peanut butter crackers, but othertimes he'd disdainfully pick through an ancient bag of trail mix or choke down some dry nilla wafers. His choices seemed weird and totally random.

After a year or so, my curiousity got the better of me and I would discreetly stand behind him pretending to search my scrubs for a wadded up dollar while he make his vending machine purchase. He was always deliberate in his choice but always purchased random foodstuffs.

After a month or so, I realized what he was doing. And, for a budding oncologist, I thought it was quirky, endearing and brilliant.

He'd always go to the same machine and buy whatever was in the slot "B-9".

Say it out loud. It seems that the guy who was going into a potentionally depressing field was also a closet optimist ...